Ode to Obituary: The Song of Eternity
by annyenil
Summary: 5th installment in the Ode to Obituary series. Urahara Kisuke's story. Before the shinigamis became souls, some of them had been once alive. What happened before the first time they died? Life before death, life after death, is there a connection between?


**Author's Note**: I have decided to separate the stories one by one since they are separate entities. Please enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach.

**Ode to Obituary**

By annyenil

**Urahara Kisuke** was a quiet, if not peculiar, boy. He lived at the edge of the grand Fuji Mountain, in a bucolic little village. He wasn't offered with a variety of children to make friends with, being dubbed "The Mad Doc" or "The Hentai" since young as he had too many idiosyncrasies to count, and too sneaky a smile to be considered friendly. His habits, he thought, hadn't been too strange. He enjoyed lifting girls' skirts and taking apart boys' toys. He was also a superior prankster, sometimes respectful of the elders, sometimes so awfully egocentric that many were afraid of him, not knowing how and when to speak to this genius confined in the pedantry of Heian Japan.

If not for _her_, Urahara might just have become Dr. Hyde. But he did not. For he had but one friend, whom he called Princess. She lived next door from him, and everyday, they would play together. Urahara never lifted her skirt, for Princess was a bizarre girl who wore shorts underneath her kimono and liked collecting insects. Insects! What a fanciful idea! But other girls were disgusted by her, and the boys mocked her for it. Princess never cared. "As long as you are my friend, Suki, I will never need another."

His Princess was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Compared to her, the other girls in the village were like paper dolls bought from the village stores. Whenever they visited the village candy shop together, the shopkeeper would always hand her a bottle of the sweetest gooey malt candy, for her eyes were the same clear, delicious brown. Urahara liked stroking her dark hair, gently, quietly as they sat upon the small hills watching the sun set. Sometimes they would play Commander and had fun conquering one hill and another.

Those days felt like they could never end.

They somehow understood each other perfectly. Every year on Hina-matsun, or Doll's Day, he would give her a little present. It would usually be the Court Musician dolls, but Urahara would've done something funny to it, so that during the ceremony at the synagogue, his Princess would spent much time suppressing her giggles at a doll whose eyes bulges with his taiko beating, or a singer whose face resembled the priest at the synagogue. Of course, Princess always had something in return for Urahara. Every Kodomo no hi, or Boy's Day, he would be the only boy in the entire village with a bright pink Koinobori. His carp flag was always the most elaborate, with delicate embroidery patterns on every scale sewn needle by needle with his Princess' soft, smooth hands.

Princess had the most angelic voice Urahara had ever heard. Every time she sang, he could feel tears, tears of joy and awe stinging his eyes. It was a catharsis. It was what kept him alive.

Perhaps it was when they were fifteen, or maybe older. The Princess hands became too smooth, so Urahara had to, he simply had to, hold them in his own. He would pass her his blithe in the Spring showers, and lend her his warmth in the Winter snow. His hair had grown past his years, his golden hair that shone in the twilight. Very often now, he would look away whenever he held her hand so that she wouldn't see the grin plastered on his face, or the pink hue that brushed his cheeks.

Urahara wonder if she turned away for the same reason.

During one of the market festivals, they slipped through the din of the villagers and escaped to the top of a small hill, waiting for the fireworks. The fireworks were always the best part of the festivals, because the games were too tiring for Princess and too callow for Urahara. Or perhaps they just deemed those so for a reason to run away.

The fireworks were spectacular, but neither of them was watching it. Instead, they gazed into each other's eyes, gazing at the fireworks reflected in each other's eyes, gazing into souls deep within. Urahara gradually lifted her cheeks with his hands, as though cupping a fragile, precious flower. Most gently, he grazed his lips against hers, ever so briefly, ever so sweetly. Both of them wondered if their sound thundering in their ears were from the blooming fireworks or their thumping heartbeats.

"Your turn." Urahara smirked, gesturing at his lips.

"No way."

"Fine." They laughed and laughed. She rested her head on his shoulder.

"You are mine."

"So are you." The Princess sat up and pulled his cheeks out like they were made of rubber. They screamed and shrieked and raced around the hill. The day felt like it could never end.

Those days felt like they could never end.

And so they ended.

"Where are you going, Princess, where?" Urahara panted as he raced after the leaving ox cart, carrying his Princess away from him, into some unknown distance. He had never felt so helpless, so obsolete. Princess merely sat and gazed at him with a grim smile cornering her lips. Her eyes contained no tears, for they had dried up along with her soul. She had no words, no tears. She had no Urahara.

"PRINCESS, DON'T GO!"

Urahara sunk into despondency. His Princess had abandoned him and left him bereaved. He hated her lack of resolution, he hated her docility, he hated her beauty, he hated her shiny mane, he hated her existence, and he hated her in his memory. And the hatred soon dissolved into countless sleepless nights and ruthless fights. Urahara became even more of a recluse before. He would stay at home and read, and read and read. All the volumes in the world would not satisfy him, for they were his only escape. He knew that a village boy like him had only once chance at finding her, and that was to study and take the Imperial Court examinations. He told himself that all he wanted was to see her one last time before he died.

Princess was no longer his woman. Her name was Maiko now. She was a geiko. She belonged to men who paid for her service, and she would dance for them, sing for them, and undress for them. She had to learn the ways of a geisha, and learn to be appeasing.

She had been sold by her family.

Urahara watched with cold eyes and a callous expression as he watched the family next door moved away, probably to a better place, leaving behind an empty, tattered hut and Urahara's broken heart. That was the value of his Princess. That was all she was worth to the world.

Urahara was more knowledgeable than any other men in the village. He was also the most dangerous. Some said he had sold his soul to the Devil, others said he had been possessed. He wasn't interested in the village calumny. He had his eyes set on the city.

Kyoto was an enormous city, especially for one who had grown up in a tiny village. It had none of the mountainous fresh air, or the short little huts. Every house was a spectacle; every alley had a dark story. Urahara searched through each of them, the lanes, the streets, the filthiest districts and the richest. He found his Princess. Except, she wasn't his anymore. She was somebody's property. She had been bought by a Danna, or patron.

Urahara knew he had no right to even eye her countenance, which was by now, masked beneath the thick layer of white disguising her true beauty. He was a failed man. He let go of his woman, and she became a tradable property among the rough handlers of the urban Heian Japan. He blamed himself, over and over. He was selfish. After seeing her, he would just leave the world behind. He told himself that it was all right, for that was how she had left him behind, left him bereft. But he knew it wouldn't be fair for her.

It had never been fair.

Urahara slipped into the kitchen of the rich house, and somehow manage to locate her dressing room. His heart was in his mouth, and his stomach twisting and lurching to an insanely agonizing extent. His hands were quivering as his knocked on the door. And it opened.

Their eyes met again. Her eyes were instantly filled with fear and tears. She slammed the door and cried, "Leave! Leave! Don't ever come back again!"

"Why, Princess? I have waited for years, so many years. It had been my fault. Please forgive me."

"I am somebody else's woman now. Please leave."

Urahara did not have time for coercion. With a murmured apology, he forced the door open and held her in his embrace. "I beg for your absolution, Princess." She struggled in his arms for awhile, and finally gave up.

"I am now known as Crimson. I am another man's woman." Her eyes were red rimmed. Her voice trembled. "But my heart……my heart always belonged to you."

They just stayed there, in each other's arms, for eternity.

If eternity was one minute.

Footsteps were approaching, like death knocking on their door. Princess did not utter another word, and blood began flowing out of her mouth. "Princess……" Urahara knew she had bitten her own tongue, determined to leave the world. His voice was coarse from the salty tears, and his heart wrenched out. Now, a renewed state of serenity had taken over him. "If the Gods chose to be depraved with the Fates they hand out, so be it." He thought, "But Princess and I will be together, alas."

Urahara grabbed a sharp, long hairpin from the dressing table and stabbed it square in his heart, his eyes shutting as he rested himself upon the Princess' slowly chilling body. It was so limp, so lifeless, but he knew she would be waiting for him on the other side. He leaned in breathlessly and planted one last kiss on her lips. Blood stained his cheeks, blood that smelt like steel, blood that was trickling away from him and his Princess.

"At least we would be together. For eternity." He breathed.

He died.

He died with a drop of bitter tear on his cheek that did not come from his eyes. Perhaps it was the Gods, regretting their careless allocation of Fate, such that a pair of lovers had to part and unite in such melancholic manners.

_Or perhaps it was the way he cried, before he went away, in his heart._

"_Sing for me, sing for me once more, Benihime."_


End file.
